


Pygmalion’s Marriage

by lnhammer



Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [3]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: Artists Are Jerks, Couplets, F/M, Fix-It, Literal Statuesque Beauty, Modern Retelling, Poetry, Sculpture, Sex Farce, born sexy yesterday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/pseuds/lnhammer
Summary: Pygmalion of Cyprus was a sculptorwho found the local women lacked a fullappreciation of his work and him ...and sohe carved himself a woman of his own.Or, how to deconstruct the Born Sexy Yesterday trope in three easy steps.
Relationships: Galatea the Statue/Pygmalion (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097087
Kudos: 2





	Pygmalion’s Marriage

Pygmalion of Cyprus was a sculptor  
who found the local women lacked a full  
appreciation of his work and him.  
They were as bad as critics—worse, at times.  
For all he tried, they’d not return his calls  
for second dates (the brush-off protocol),  
or if they did, slept with others too  
(his so-called friends), came to his studio  
to bother him, and every single one’d  
completely misread what his pieces meant—  
except that girl who broke it off. And so  
he carved himself a woman of his own.

Desire formed his work: ideals and dreams  
controlled his shaping hands until it seemed  
in that sustained white heat she carved herself.  
At last it finished, leaving his empty shell  
to vegidaze upon his couch for days—  
both effort and effect of formal grace.

His artistry could not, here, be denied.  
Her stone: rose-tinted white—in firelight,  
soft flesh. Face: Aphrodite’s, with small flaws—  
a mortal beauty. Eyes: cast down; arms: poised  
to cover breast and thigh—awareness that  
allured. Perfection: but for one defect—  
no life. Even there, he learned he could  
deceive himself—for when they kissed,  
didn’t her hard lips flutter back? and when  
he cupped her breast, didn’t her warm stone strain  
to meet his hand? Didn’t she snuggle near?  
But then she froze, exactly as before.  
The more time spent with her—caressing, petting,  
dressing her up in clothes and jewels and hats  
and then undressing her for bed at night—  
the more she teased him with her hints of life.  
He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t leave his flat  
except to get her gifts. He ate from cans.  
Each day to night to dusk became a blur  
of love, of loving her, a fervid lover,  
till he convinced himself in love-lorn blear  
that helpful Aphrodite’d hear his prayer.

Her festival—nine Cypriotic days  
of wine, orgiastic rites, and wild parades—  
had just begun. He gathered offerings  
and walked through streets of torch-lit reveling  
to where the temples danced about the square  
with naked sacred prostitutes, ignored  
by him. Before the altar and its flame,  
as incense sent around soft coils of gray  
he knelt and spilled the blood of doves for Her  
and gave the Lady Love a stammered prayer:  
“Give me a woman like my marble art.”  
For moments, endless moments, all he heard  
was priestess/priest’s eternal sex, and hymns—  
then sacred fires rose and fell three times  
in omen: Yes. Heart leaping lightning-like,  
he hurried home to meet his new-made wife.

But when he thundered in, she lay (a lie)  
in bed still stony unalive. He sighed  
at —wait, —was that? —beneath his warming hand  
her breast softened like beeswax till it handled  
as fleshly firm as any maidens’ should.  
He stroked her yielding thigh, felt her flesh’s blood,  
and kissed her mouth, which parted to his tongue.  
She breathed, a slender shudder of newborn lung,  
then Galatea opened her eyes to see  
Pygmalion look down. Enraptured, he  
caressed her to convince himself it was true,  
and she replied as instinct told her to:  
with joy at painless birth, and legs apart.  
He moved between them and with lover’s art  
they consummated what great Aphrodite granted.

As always after pausing, time recanted  
and hauled the lovers from their hungry bed:  
soon people heard Pygmalion was wed—  
to everyone’s surprise—and came to see.  
His friends mistook her, understandably,  
for her model, and praised how accurate  
his details were—for they saw every bit,  
at least till Galatea learned to dress:  
created nude, she simply couldn’t guess  
why clothing must be worn, and anyway  
her clothes were all ill-fitting lingerie.  
But he bought better suits that weren’t so raw  
and Modesty (bastard child of Sex and Law)  
was learned—along with life’s essential skills:  
to cook and clean, chat up the imbeciles  
at galleries, and understand his art.  
These came as fillies walk—the flirting part,  
at least, for socially, she soon matured.  
(His consolation: several sales she lured.)  
But as for taste, that seemed a hopeless quest:  
she thought his early hackwork was his best.

At least the sex was great—till it became  
the fuel, not damper, of their quarrel’s flames  
for, shaped as sexiness incarnate, and  
woken to sex, and watching festive bands  
have constant sex her first eight days of life,  
and loving sex, she just didn’t get _why_  
sex stopped. “A man can only pump,” he said,  
“till he runs dry.” And putting it off? —that’s mad.  
“I have to work sometimes, to make a living.”  
And other men were always willing to give.  
“You weren’t carved for other—” And you know,  
those temple whores continuously screw.  
“You’re my wife, not a sacred prostitute—”  
Oh yeah? “Yes—” We’ll see about that, she shouted  
and slammed shut the heavy metal door.  
He stared at where she’d stood, now empty air.

She stayed away two days. Pygmalion,  
determined not to let that … trollop win,  
did nothing but listen for her quiet step,  
glance out the window, gnaw his lower lip,  
again glance, take up chisel with a will  
and not remember what he’s doing, wilt,  
begin to clean the flat—then stop in anger:  
his own creation, his!, was in the wrong—  
he’d not apologize by doing dishes.

The third day, confident, despite his rush,  
she wasn’t there, he walked with hurried steps  
back to the temple. See? Not here—just men  
watching a naked whore dance for the crowd.  
“Who’d celebrate the love,” the priestess called,  
“our Mother gave Adonis once? Who’d give  
our harvest all the strength of her and him?”  
He recognized the body she displayed,  
the one from which he’d chipped white stone away,  
and stared, then pushed through the hindering throng  
empty with fear and sense of fate and longing  
too late to claim her—a merchant tithed  
his offering and guided her inside.

He stood alone within the crowd: He’d seen  
Galatea’s smile—not his, her own.

Divorce was quick—the temple intervened:  
conceived by mortal hand but born by Love,  
she was the ideal vestal for their goddess;  
she later rose to lead the cult, high priestess.  
With therapy, Pygmalion grew calm  
and gained success recarving her in small  
for sale as idols in the temple shops  
as aids for luck in love, and better crops.


End file.
